


Love, Peace and Understanding

by Jaelijn



Category: Blake's 7
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, No Spoilers, Season/Series 01, for several different ones, holiday fic, no pairings but you can probably read it as, well general winter festivities really not specifically christmas necessarily but still
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 04:11:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9054826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaelijn/pseuds/Jaelijn
Summary: There is snow on the Liberator's flight deck.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, here it is! HAPPY HOLIDAYS, everyone! Hope you enjoy my humble little gift that grew not quite so little! (What can I say, I enjoy writing Avon.)
> 
> It's set in late-ish Season 1, I think, and pure and utter fluff, probably just before Deliverance-Orac. Or perhaps early S2, either will work. At any rate, there are no spoilers in this at all, as far as I'm aware.
> 
> No pairings this time either; a) because it is set so early in the show and b) because I wanted to keep it viable as a purely friendship-y / Gen piece. But you know me, feel free to read this as pre-slash for whichever pairing you like. (Personally, and since there is a good deal of Avon-Vila interaction, I imagine this is before Avon realises that he's falling in love with Vila. ;))

It wasn’t Vila’s doing, of that Avon was, for once, absolutely certain. Not Blake’s either, as Blake was standing by his side looking… well. Under other circumstances, Avon might have found the expression hilarious. ‘Flabbergasted’ was the word, perhaps.

“What happened?!” Blake stepped down the stairs, stopping just short of the apparition.

Avon remained in the doorway, sheltered. If it could happen once, it could happen again, after all, and he had no wish to be drenched, and his boots weren’t watertight. On the other hand, _Liberator_ ’s base temperature might be a little cold for his taste, but certainly not _this_ cold. “It appears to have snowed,” he told Blake and leant back against the doorframe.

“ _Snow_?!”

“Crystallised frozen water.”

Blake ran a hand through his locks, looking positively frazzled. Oh, if Avon only knew who to thank for this. “I know what snow is, Avon. How did it get onto the _flight deck of the_ Liberator _in deep space_?”

“Do you imagine _I_ had anything to do with it?”

“Well, do you have an explanation?!”

Avon walked down the steps with a sigh, casting a cautious glance upwards at the unsuspicious ceiling, and crouched down, scooping up some of the snow. “Yes… of course it would be.”

“What?”

Avon brushed the ‘snow’ off his hand. “It’s artificial.”

“I wasn’t expecting it to be naturally occurring!”

“Artificial as the winter decorations in the Alpha shopping district, Blake.” Avon moved some of the flakes to a heap, revealing the undamaged and dry flight deck floor below. “It’s dry and doesn’t melt.”

“At least it won’t damage the electronics, then.” Blake seemed to breathe a little easier. “Vila?”

“Not this time.”

Blake shot him a sideways glance. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Avon pushed himself back to his feet, and surveyed the snow covering. Whoever had spread – or spilled – it, had centred it around the front portion of the flight deck, away from the sensitive consoles. It did look beautiful in its own way, now that Avon could be certain that it was neither a hazard to the computers nor uncomfortably cold and wet, at least. He hadn’t particularly enjoyed the idea of having to wear environmental suits on board until further notice. “Zen might be able to tell us. This amount of foreign substance isn’t easy to replicate, move or leave on the flight deck without Zen intervening.”

Blake nodded, and ploughed a path through the ‘snow’ towards Zen’s fascia. “Zen! Where did this snow come from!”

“This information is unavailable.”

“What?”

“Specify, Zen!” Avon interrupted, stepping up to the central console and across to his own, circumventing the spread of snow.

“The question cannot be answered.”

“ _That_ isn’t specific.” Avon started a quick diagnostics programme from his console, just to make sure that the snow had, in fact, not done any damage. Small particles of whatever nature could be a danger to machinery of any sort.

“Was the sensory data voice-locked?” Blake asked.

“There is no sensory data for the period in which the substance appeared.”

Avon looked up sharply. “Who deleted the records?”

“There was no deletion. The sensors on the flight deck were offline for a period of time.”

“Why didn’t you alert us? Is there an intruder on board?”

“The deactivation was initiated by a member of the crew, and sensors indicate the substance is non-hazardous. No intruder was detected on board the _Liberator_.”

“ _Who_ switched off the sensors?”

“That information is not available.”

Blake huffed and joined Avon by the console, shaking some flakes off his boots. “Whoever it was was thorough.”

“I could probably convince the auto repair circuits to clean it up. The particles seem small enough.”

“Wait, Avon.” Blake’s hand settled heavily on the edge the console, directly in Avon’s line of vision. “I’m curious. This is the sort of prank I would expect from Vila, but not any of the others.”

“Vila was in the computer room with me all day yesterday, and went straight to bed. I would have heard it if he’d got up before me.”

“All right. Perhaps it was my own fault for waiving the night watch while we are in deep space. Aren’t you curious who came up with this, and why? Do you imagine Cally–”

Avon settled back against his chair, looking over the white covering, now disturbed by Blake’s boots. “I don’t believe Auron experiences snowfall.”

“Jenna? Or Gan? Doesn’t sound very likely.”

“All right, so we leave it and wait?”

“Yes. While we’re out here, I might just enjoy a little domestic mystery!”

 

In the end, Avon did programme the auto repair for the ‘snow’ when it occurred in small quantities, as it was dragged all over the ship by their shoes, but seemed to be replenished on the flight deck every morning – along with another sensory blackout. The snow wasn’t particularly well-suited for sculpting, to Vila’s disappointment and Avon’s relief, but that hardly seemed to be a deterrent to the crew’s enjoyment of the stuff. Gan, too, observed the snow with calm enjoyment. Cally was positively delighted, and once Jenna had got over her initial alarm, she seemed to enjoy stirring up the snow with her boots as she crossed the flight deck – Avon still preferred the (mostly) snow-free route over the consoles. Neither of them gave any hint as to who was responsible for its appearance, and the mystery was starting to become more annoying than enjoyable.

Blake might delight in not knowing some things, Avon was rather more keen on figuring things out. He hadn’t meant to mention as much to Vila, but Vila wouldn’t leave it alone on their shared watch, moving it to loose piles and then shuffling through them, sending the snow everywhere, or lying down in the middle of the spread, flapping his arms. It was a change from his usually sleepiness on their shared late watch, and Avon wasn’t sure he appreciated the change. When Vila stopped for a moment, sitting up in the figure he made in the snow, some of the flakes clinging to his hair, he asked: “Don’t you like snow, Avon?”

“No, I don’t,” Avon told him, “it is generally wet and cold, and this variety is becoming too much of a mystery for my taste.”

Vila laughed, shaking the flakes from his hair. They fell easily, of course, fluttering softly to the ground all around the thief as he stood up. “I like riddles.”

“I like solving them,” Avon conceded with a small smirk that faded as soon as he continued, “this one is becoming less engaging by the hour.”

“Because Blake won’t let you hack Zen to find out who switched off the sensors?”

“He can’t intend to keep the ‘snow’ indefinitely,” Avon said, though knowing Blake, he couldn’t be sure. The man might decide to fabricate it into a weapon against the Federation somehow – doubtless asking Avon to do all the work.

Vila flopped down on the flight sofa, pulling off his shoes to put his feet up and shaking more snow off the canvas footwear he liked to wear – not, Avon noted, at all suitable for actual snow. “It’s not that much of a nuisance, is it?”

“It isn’t a hazard as long as we’re in deep space, but that won’t be for very much longer. We both know Blake is already planning his next blow against the Federation. In a battle situation, I want the stuff gone.”

“You’re afraid you’ll slip on it, aren’t you?”

Avon shot him a glare, catching one of the insouciant grins Vila only ever seemed to direct at him. “I might be more inclined to appreciate the diversion if the perpetrator could inform us of the purpose of this… snowfall.”

Vila shrugged. “’s just a bit of harmless fun.”

“Aren’t pointless practical jokes usually your domain?”

“Hey, I can appreciate a job done well by someone else.”

So could Avon, if only he were able to see the _purpose_. Yes, some harmless diversion might disperse some tensions in the crew – it was certainly distracting Blake, who seemed more inclined to prolong their aimless flight as long as there was _snow_ , and hadn’t objected, for once, to Avon immersing himself in one of his own projects even though it had nothing to do with working on the _Liberator_ or defeating the Federation. Still, there were no seasons in deep space, and Avon had checked – even in the Earth dome by which those that cared about such things measured the months on the _Liberator_ it was far from winter.

“Blake will get bored with waiting for a solution to this mystery eventually, and then _I_ will have to programme the auto repair to get rid of it.” Avon leant back to relax his hands and directed his gaze at Zen’s fascia before him. “Or perhaps I’ll have you clean it up by hand, since you enjoy it so much.”

“That isn’t fair! I had nothing to do with this!”

“But you know who did, don’t you, Vila?”

“So what if I do? I’m not telling you just so you can make them get rid of the snow overnight! I like it!”

“Hm. Well, enjoy it while it lasts. It won’t be much longer.” Avon turned back to his work, tuning Vila’s chatter out – it still surprised him how easy it was; he never used to like working amongst chatty people, _especially_ not when they were actually talking to him. However, Avon couldn’t bring himself to mind Vila’s monologues, as much as Vila didn’t seem to mind his lack of response.

Until, that was, Vila sauntered over just before the end of their watch and asked: “What are you working on, anyway?” and Avon had to close the programme rather hurriedly, powering down the console.

“You wouldn’t understand,” he told Vila, and stepped away from his position. “I’m going to bed.”

 

When Avon woke up in the morning, his cabin was _cold_. He was reluctant to emerge from his blankets and the warmth of his bed, but a drop in environmental temperature was not a good sign – the heating system was part of life support, and any irregularities in life support indicated a serious hardware or computer fault.

Pulling a throw off his bed and around his shoulders, Avon headed to the communications grid and punched up the flight deck. “What the hell is going on?”

“Morning, Avon,” Vila’s cheerful voice chimed back. “You should come up here, it’s nice and warm.”

“Vila, what is wrong with the life support systems, and why didn’t anyone wake me?”

“Nothing’s wrong, all systems are functioning normally, right, Zen?”

Zen’s _Confirmed_ sounded overly loudly through the comm circuit.

“See? Someone just lowered the temperature all over the ship – but the flight deck is cosy.”

 _Someone_ was probably the same culprit that was responsible for the ‘snow’. Avon folded the blanket with a sigh, and set about getting dressed. His hands already felt cold. “Get Zen to reheat my cabin – _now_ , Vila.”

“Aww, Avon–”

“I’m coming to the flight deck now, but if my room is still cold when I come down tonight, I will hold you personally responsible. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly,” Vila answered crisply, and cut the connection. By the time Avon left, he could already feel the heating unit getting to work.

The corridor, of course, was still freezing, but it did get gradually warmer as he neared the flight deck, until it felt warmer than was usual for the _Liberator._ It might actually be… comfortable, a temperature Avon might be able to get used to. He would have to consider the energy expenditure if he lowered the ship’s temperature on the uninhabited decks permanently, and whether it was worth doing raising it in just his cabin…

In thought, Avon almost didn’t see it at first, and when he did, nearly missed the last step to the flight deck. Everyone else had already gathered on the flight deck sofa around a… “What the hell?!”

There was a small tree, standing right in the centre of the front part of the flight deck. Its trunk disappeared into the middle of a small heap in the spread of ‘snow’ that was, of course, still there, just where it had been the evening before.

“It’s a tree,” Vila proclaimed cheerfully from where he was sitting cross-legged on the central seat.

“You don’t say.” Avon stepped reluctantly down to his station, placing the datapad he’d brought on the console. The programming was almost done, he would be able to start testing it today. Vaguely, Avon noted that the smooth fabric of the flight deck seats actually felt invitingly warm for once, despite the fact that he hadn’t yet been wasting his own body heat on it for hours.  

“It’s an artificial tree,” Blake said, twisting around on the sofa to face him. He was tapping the knuckle of his finger against his lips, a nervous habit the origin of which Avon hadn’t cared to interrogate too closely. “I checked.”

“Naturally. I assume Zen won’t tell us how it got here?”

“The sensors were offline tonight,” Jenna said, “like before.”

“Perhaps we should set up a watch, after all,” Avon remarked dryly, booting up the console.

“Are you volunteering?” Vila asked.

“Would you let me?”

“No need to spoil the fun just yet, I think, Avon,” Blake cut in with his usual roundabout way of giving an order that drove Avon to distraction. Still, considering that he had woken up in a cold cabin, Avon was in a remarkably good mood.

“All right. I will allow this charade to continue under one condition – if any of you touch the environmental controls to my cabin, _any controls for my cabin_ , ever again, I will find out who was responsible, and if I have to take Zen apart to do it.”

 

The tree, once Avon took a break to examine it, was rather unremarkable. It resembled a small pine, but was made from disposably plastics the _Liberator_ could synthesise in large quantities. This capability was the reason Avon had reproduced some of the tools most likely to break from the same material instead of risking his one set of tools made from glass unnecessarily. At least their resident practical joker was conscious of their limited resources, a fact which nagged at Avon’s mind for the rest of the day, slowing his progress on the programme. He felt as though it ought to be an important clue in the mystery of who was creating a winter scene on their flight deck, but the puzzle pieces refused to click into place.

It wasn’t unusual for Avon to stay up late, so no one made a special comment when they all, one by one, trailed off to bed, until Avon found himself alone on the flight deck. The warmth was pleasant, enough to relax him despite himself – Avon couldn’t remember when he’d last felt comfortably warm and safe enough to become drowsy. He lowered the datapad onto a recharging circuit, and leant back on the sofa. There was a pile of ‘snow’ around his boots where he’d made a space for his feet, and the tree was surprisingly appealing visually, offsetting the white. Avon hadn’t attempted anything artistic in a long time – it wasn’t a hobby he liked to share with other people, and he could disperse his creative energy just as adequately with programming. Most people couldn’t tell one mathematical calculation from whimsical programming script, which worked in his favour. Still, he could appreciate abstract beauty.

“Oh, Avon? Still here?” Blake’s voice sounded from behind him.

Avon twisted around to face him, and found that the puzzle piece clicked into place with finality. “Ah, Blake. You are rather a better actor than I gave you credit for.”

Blake raised his eyebrows, but his eyes were wrinkling with a smile. “Vila figured it out on the first day.”

“ _He_ wasn’t there to see your expression when we walked in on the ‘snow’. The tree is also your doing?”

“Yes – I had Zen’s help, of course. And to be perfectly honest, when I asked him to synthesise the snow, I had expected him to put it in buckets down in the replication room, not dump it all on the flight deck!” Blake chuckled. “It only occurred to me when we walked in on it that making it a bit of a mystery might be fun.”

“Zen is a computer. _It_ will carry out your instructions, but _only_ your instructions. If you wanted buckets, you would have had to tell it. What are you doing here now, anyway?”

Blake lifted the box he was carrying, setting it down on the sofa beside Avon. “I was more precise in my instructions for the tree, but _this_ I wanted to do myself. Join me?”

Avon eyed the box – non-descript, no label, of course. “Doing what?”

“Decorating.”

“Aren’t the snow and the tree enough?”

“I’ve looked up a few things. Back before the Federation banned the Old Religions, there was a festival of love, peace and understanding in the middle of winter. The Federation still commercialise winter decorations, of course, but I thought we could resurrect the sentiment.” Blake opened the box, pulling out the contents – strings of glittering tinsel and, heaven help them, remotely powered fairy lights. Underneath, he unearthed a box Avon recognised from the treasure room – an extensive collection of sparkling silver and diamond earrings with long, delicate hangers.

“You cannot be serious.”

“We’ll put them straight back in the treasury afterwards, Avon,” Blake said with a smile that was far too relaxed and tolerant.

Avon crossed his arms. “‘Love, peace and understanding’, Blake?”

Blake looked up, a string of fairy lights dangling from his hands, and his expression sobered for a moment. “Reminding us of why we fight.” He turned to the tree abruptly, his back to Avon. “It is also customary to give gifts, but since none of us have very many possessions, I refrained from suggesting it. Will you give me a hand with the diamonds?”

Avon had just opened the box contemplatively when a familiar pattern of quick footsteps interrupted them, and Vila’s voice sounded from the corridor: “Avon, are you still awake? Could you give me a hand?”

Avon turned, and nearly groaned when he laid eyes on Vila. “Not you, too.”

The _Liberator_ ’s wardrobe room was extensive, as Avon well knew, and Vila _did_ have the propensity to select the most atrocious pieces, but Avon had had no idea before now that there even _was_ an apron. It also looked as if something had exploded in Vila’s face, white globs clinging to both the cloth of the apron and Vila’s receding hairline.

“Oh, hello, Blake,” Vila said, trailing to a stop by the sofa. He nodded to Blake, taking the fact that Blake was untangling silver glittery tinsel beside a half-decorated tree in stride. Then, he seemed to dismiss Blake with an ease Avon couldn’t help but envy him for, and turned to Avon. “Give me a hand with the food processor, would you?”

“ _What_ were you trying to do?”

“Blake isn’t the only one who can do his research, you know. Baked goods are traditional. I haven’t made any in a long time, and there are no raw ingredients unless I get Zen to synthesise them. It didn’t go so well the first time round.”

Avon glanced towards Blake, who was winding the string of tinsel around the pine now, and caught a brief glance and nod. Well, if tinkering with the food processor got him out of hanging priceless diamonds on a pine tree in the name of _love, peace and understanding_ … “All right, Vila. Let’s go before you manage to blow up the ship.”

 

Every once in a while, Avon wondered why, as irritating as Vila could be, _he_ remained the one member of the crew that Avon would willingly seek out to spend time with. Occasionally, Avon came to the conclusion that Vila was simply easiest to ignore, but alive enough to remind him that he wasn’t stuck in deep space entirely on his own. At other times, he remembered that he _enjoyed_ solitude, and that the fact that he sought to include Vila, of all people, in that solitude had to mean _something_. Avon tried not to dwell on it for too long.

On the mechanical level, neither Avon nor Blake had been able to make much sense of the food synthesiser. They knew that it gradually drew on a large store of raw protein in the _Liberator_ ’s holds to produce pre-programmed meals that, depending on the complexity, approximated meals made from fresh ingredients adequately. For more complex dishes, it was advisable to synthesise the components, and take care of the cooking manually. Precisely _how_ the protein could turn into meals or ingredients remained a mystery, and the programming wasn’t always easy. The _Liberator_ clearly hadn’t been built with a human crew in mind.

“All right, what do you need?” Avon asked, stepping up to the synthesiser. He had played with it a fair bit, more than any of the crew, to set up at least some full meals as push-of-the-button ready (and edible) for when they were in a rush. It had proven useful.

Vila peeled the last remainder of the food explosion from his face and leant against the counter to Avon’s right. The kitchen hadn’t suffered too much from the mishap, and several ingredients were already lined up neatly by Vila’s elbow. “Just the flour and flaxseed. The spices and sugar all synthesised fine.”

“Forgive me if I don’t taste them to make sure.”

“They’re fine, Avon. And don’t worry, I’ll save some gingerbread men for you. You’ll like them.”

“Gingerbread men.”

“Yeh. Do Alphas have those? My gran used to make them every winter. It’s been a while but I think I remember the recipe just fine.”

Vila, Avon had noted before, had an erratic and very selective but surprisingly accurate memory. Avon directed his attention to the machine. “I don’t generally indulge in sweets.”

“You should. Might improve your mood.”

“Do you want me to programme the synthesiser for you, or would you rather work on it alone?”

“Never mind me, Avon. You know me, I just like talking.”

Avon flicked a switch and a neat bowl of flour appeared in the recess. Avon passed it over to Vila. “Oh yes, I think I am getting to know you very well.”

The flaxseed proved even less of a problem, but Avon ended up staying in the kitchen anyway, dropping by the flight deck briefly to collect his mobile device – where he found Blake still at work and made an excuse of Vila still needing some more ingredients when Blake waved a string of fairy lights – now glowing – at him.

Vila, while running his mouth before and after and in breaks, tended to work in comfortable silence, and the spice mixture he was stirring together had a pleasant aroma. Besides, the kitchen, like the flight deck, was warmer than usual. Avon was happy to recline in one of the chairs and idly run the beta testing of his little programme.

He looked up only briefly when Vila rolled the dough out on the table and began painstakingly cutting figures and little stars and pine trees from it, repurposing a second-grade laser probe as a cooking tool. The shapes were a little rough, but recognisable for what they were meant to symbolise. “There are shaped cutters for this, you know,” Vila remarked.

Avon vaguely remembered seeing them in the offers of the online delivery services he used to use back on Earth.

“I couldn’t find any on the _Liberator_ ,” Vila continued mournfully, but he was smiling when a little tree, star or figure after the other could be placed on the baking tray. And then he was done, and the gingerbread shapes were inside the device they had designated the oven – it had the capacity for temperatures that could melt any metal, but worked well on lower ranges, too. 

Vila pulled up a chair and settled down on it to watch the baking goods. “What are you working on there?”

Avon glanced up from the datapad, noting that the spice mixture smelled even better when baking. “You wouldn’t understand,” he repeated, but found that he was less inclined to leave than the evening before.

“Try me.”

“I think not.”

Vila tilted his head, still surprisingly awake for the late hour. “What’s your position on bribes, Avon?”

“What could _you_ possibly offer _me_?”

Vila grinned. “A deal, then. You tell me what you were working on once it’s done, and I let you have a gingerbread straight out of the oven and still warm, and I’ll make you a hot chocolate with spice to go with it. A nice treat before bed.”

“I’m not a child, Vila. I can feed myself.”

“Suit yourself. I’ll just make one for myself, then.” Vila clambered up from the chair, moving busily around the kitchen. He was aimlessly moving items about, pulling a mug from the shelf but not setting about preparing any drink just yet. Every once in a while he stopped to check on the gingerbread.

Avon could tell by the aroma alone that they were nearly done, and, unexpectedly, found that his stomach was growling. It was late, he was tired, and he had only had a small dinner. Avon ran a hand over his eyes, powering down the datapad. Perhaps… “Vila–”

“No gingerbread for you until morning,” came the immediate response.

It was the comfortable temperature, surely, or the late hour, that compelled Avon to hold out his hand towards the thief with a smile. “All right. You have your deal. I’ll show you what I’m working on once it’s done, in exchange for a drink and _two_ of those gingerbreads.”

Vila’s entire face lit up with a grin, and he clasped Avon’s hand firmly. “That’s all right, there’s plenty. You’ll like them, I promise.”

Avon ended up taking the gingerbread and hot drink to his cabin, trailed by a yawning Vila heading to his own room next to Avon’s. He’d given Avon two star-shaped ones on a small plate, neither one looking very symmetric, but tasting better than Avon was prepared to admit. He had broken off a piece in the kitchen to satisfy Vila’s expectant glance, and his first thought, embarrassingly, had been that, for this, Vila actually deserved that Avon kept up his end of the bargain. He had originally planned to show Vila any random work on the _Liberator_ ’s programming, far beyond the thief’s comprehension, but it might be useful, after all, to hear Vila’s opinion on his actual project. Avon had the impression that Vila had read rather more of that on his face than he would have liked, as he’d started beaming before Avon had even said a word. After that, Avon refused to eat another bite in company.

He slept extraordinarily well.

 

There was nothing specific that woke him up in the morning, which was generally either a very good or very bad sign. Having slept deeply, however, Avon made his way to the flight deck in a better mood than he was prepared to let on. It was embarrassing, really, that a late night cooking session with their resident Delta thief, a few bites of homemade baking and a few hours of decent sleep should work such wonders on his mood. The fact that, now that he knew Blake was behind the… winter festivity, he could safely assume that there would be no mission in the name of the Cause for as long as the _Liberator_ ’s corridors were cooler than usual and the flight deck was covered in snow had to be a contributing factor.

He found, to his surprise, only Vila awake, his huge plate with gingerbread sitting on an overturned silver pot directly under the tree, seemingly untouched as yet. Vila had got rid of the apron overnight, back in his usual clothes, and was examining the diamonds – Blake’s tree decorations – with an expert’s gaze. “Good morning, Avon!”

“Leave those alone. I’ll notice if there are any missing, and I will know who took them.”

Vila grinned, but let go of the diamond, leaving it dangling amongst the artificial branches. “Do you think Blake will?”

“I doubt he counted them.” Avon made his way to the sofa, opting to postpone his daily systems’ check for later. He was still glad that his boots were too high for any of the ‘snow’ to spill into them.

“Unlike you?”

“Of course.”

“Then Blake won’t notice if I take one or two, will he? How much are they worth, do you reckon?”

Avon sat down, folding his legs. “A few thousand a piece, probably.”

“Hm.” Vila plucked two from the lower branches facing the flight deck wall, where their disappearance would be less obvious, and tossed one lightly into Avon’s lap. “A few thousand for each of us, wouldn’t you say?” Vila palmed the other one, flicking his empty hand to show of the magic trick. “If you don’t say a word to Blake.”

Avon nodded, sliding the diamond into one of his pockets. Really, the idea should have occurred to _him_. Blake, for all his possessiveness over the treasure for his blessed Cause, had never bothered to make an inventory of its contents. Avon, and, perhaps, Jenna and Vila were the only ones on board with any idea of its actual worth. “Not very in the spirit of Blake’s winter festivities of _love, peace and understanding_ , Vila.”

Vila settled down on the opposite end of the sofa. “And why not, I ask you? I _love_ wealthy and pretty things, I’ve taken them quite _peace_ fully, and we have an _understanding_ , don’t we?”

Avon smiled. “It seems we do.” He started up the datapad he’d brought – he hadn’t left it out of his sight much the last few days, his mind pleasantly occupied and focussed on the little project. It was frivolous, really, but if Blake could be permitted to indulge in setting up winter festivities in deep space, surely no one could fault Avon for this. They would probably have been surprised that he would even consider an activity that, measured by usefulness and purpose, was a waste of time. As the device powered up, Avon found his gaze straying to the gingerbread. “What happened, did you poison the others with your baking?”

“I’d be insulted if I hadn’t seen your face when you tasted one yesterday,” Vila shot back cheerfully. “They’re sleeping in, I assume. I’ve had Zen switch off all the personal alarms. Looks like they need it.”  

“Evidently.” Avon breathed in deeply. There really was no reason to wait, and with the others all still in bed… “Well, Vila. How eager are you to receive your side of last night’s deal?”

Vila was instantly at his side, trying to peer at the screen. “You mean you’re done?”

“Yes, I’m done. I don’t see why you would be so eager – for all you know, I might have been reconfiguring Zen’s voice recognition. Sit down, you’re getting the snow everywhere.”

Vila fell onto the sofa beside him, leaning in rather too far for Avon’s general liking. Somehow, the interest, when it came from Vila, was flattering. “It’s not, though. You always say when you’re working on the ship so you have witnesses if you need to use it as a bargaining chip against Blake.”

One of these days, Avon needed to find out just how Vila could become aware of these things when he wasn’t even particularly conscious of them himself. “It’s not,” he agreed and passed Vila the datapad. “See for yourself.”

Vila activated it with a light touch, a small frown appearing on his brow as he studied the screen. Avon couldn’t see what he was doing from this angle, but then, a few touches later, the wrinkles smoothed over, and Vila’s face lit up with a broad grin. “Aww, Avon! It’s a game!”

Avon found himself smiling, unable to remember when the expression had started. “A puzzle, yes.”

Vila tapped a few more times, the same concentrated look on his face that appeared when he was working on challenging locks. It _was_ flattering. “Do I win something?”

“In the game? No. I haven’t programmed anything yet.” Avon stood, walking to his station to finally run the systems’ checks. “ _If_ you can beat it without asking anyone – or any _thing_ – for help, I’ll let you have the second diamond.”

Vila twisted around to look at him at that. “You’re serious?”

“Always.”

“Several thousand credits, for a game?”

Avon smirked. “Aren’t you a gambler, Vila?”

“In a small way. Are you?”

“Perhaps.”

“So if I beat the game without help, I get both diamonds?”

“Yes.”

Vila hummed, and turned back to the device. The thief was nothing if not tenacious when challenged with a puzzle not unlike a complex lock, especially if there was a reward to be had. He might take it slowly without the usual adrenalin to fuel his skills, but Avon had no doubt that he would solve the game – eventually. It would lose Avon a diamond that wouldn’t have been in his possession without Vila’s quick thinking in the first place, but somehow, it didn’t seem like a great loss. Avon leant back and watched the concentration and quick smiles dance over Vila’s face as he worked, finding the little hidden jokes and dead ends, and getting stuck in the difficult places. From his perch on his flight seat, Avon could see half of the screen, enough to tell where in the game Vila was, and it felt almost comfortable – keeping one eye on Vila and the other on the full systems’ check while the sounds of the _Liberator_ in quiet flight hummed around them and the slight smell of gingerbread hung in the air.

 

The others started trailing in by late morning ship time, and immediately gather around the plate of sweets. Vila shot Avon a conspiratorial glance and hid the pad with the game under his own console, before he put on a guileless glance and joined the others in their contemplation of the food.

“These are very good,” Cally remarked, her gaze travelling searchingly from one of them to the other. Avon met it with a raised eyebrow that prompted a knowing smile. Ah, well. Avon wasn’t about to correct her misconceptions about his baking skills just to expose Vila.

“Who made these?” Jenna asked, looking at Blake. “Blake?”

Blake smiled and lifted his hands in a gesture of innocence. “Not me.”

“Surely not Zen,” Gan said.

“Of course not. Zen is a computer, not a kitchen aide.”

“It must have been the winter elves, mustn’t it, Avon?” Vila chimed, snatching two of his own gingerbreads from the plate and holding one out to Avon across the backrest of the sofa. Avon had remained at his station when the others arrived. The front of the flight deck was rather too crowded with the tree there.

“Winter elves, Vila?” Cally asked, and Vila launched readily into a wild story about little red and green creatures of Earth legend that used to travel all over the world in winter times of the Old Calendar to deliver sweets and gifts. Avon didn’t claim to be an expert in the rituals and customs of the Old Religions, but he was sure he had never heard the stories told quite like that.

While Vila was still talking, Blake came over to Avon. “Can you lower the lights on the flight deck?” he asked, his voice so conspiratorily low that Avon could barely understand him above Vila’s theatrical storytelling and the others’ laughter.

“Of course. What are you planning?”

“Don’t switch them off completely – I don’t want to cause a panic. Just lower them gradually – I think the fairy lights on the tree will look much better in dim light, don’t you?”

“All right, Blake. You’ll have your mood lighting.”

Blake briefly touched his arm – always tactile with his thanks. “Thank you.” With that, he returned to the circle of the others as if he’d never left it, his own boisterous laughter joining the general cacophony.

Implementing Blake’s request was decidedly simple. The _Liberator_ already had settings for lower lights in the event of an emergency, where energy consumption efficiency was of primary importance. All Avon had to do was convince Zen to gradually lower the lights to the emergency setting without speaking to the computer. Avon hadn’t quite grasped Zen’s native programming language yet, but the computer could accept written commands in casual language just as he could accept voiced instructions. After just a few moments, Avon could lean back and watch the overhead lights dim slowly, and the bright pinpricks of lights on the tree sparkle all the brighter.

With the _Liberator_ ’s lights lowered, the fairy lights reflected on the snow, and off both the tinsel and the diamonds, making all glitter and gleam. Specks of light danced over the walls as the diamonds twisted on the branches with the light breeze of the air recycling system, or whenever one of the others walked past.

Gradually, Vila’s story, too, came to an end, and the conversation died off, all of them captured by the tree for a rare moment of true silence.

Blake caught Avon’s eyes and nodded, a unnecessary gesture of approval Avon didn’t feel compelled to return. Still, for once, Blake had been right – the fairy lights _did_ look better in low light.

Then, Vila jumped to his feet with a grin. “I know what this needs. Drinks, and a board game.” He darted out into the corridor, and a moment later reappeared, balancing one of the multiplayer games they had found in the _Liberator_ ’s hold as well as a bottle and a set of glasses.  

He passed the game on to Blake, sitting nearest, and began distributing out glasses of whatever his drink of choice was this time – brightly coloured as always, but its nature otherwise indiscernible. Blake gave his glass a sniff, took a small swallow, and lifted an appreciative eyebrow. Something lightly alcoholic then, and probably not too sweet.

Vila was suddenly by Avon’s side, holding out the last glass. “Join us?”

“I might as well.” Avon pushed away from the console, and moved to his customary seat on the sofa, opposite Blake. The drink _was_ slightly alcoholic and slightly sweet, the texture a little heavier than Avon was accustomed to in alcoholic beverages, but not entirely repulsive.

“Isn’t it customary to make a toast?” Gan asked when Vila had settled down by his side again, and begun setting up the game pieces.

“I believe it is”, Avon agreed, and added with a sudden mischievous streak, “unless Vila’s elves have taken care of that, too.”

“Not me. I don’t do speeches. Ask me again if you need stories or magic tricks,” Vila said, undisturbed in the process of setting up the game.

Avon turned his gaze on Blake. “Well, Blake? Grand speeches are usually your particular talent.”

Blake, always contrary, just smiled. “No speeches today, Avon.” Blake lifted his glass, holding it high between them. “Just a toast – to peace, and freedom.”

“To peace and freedom,” Jenna echoed readily, and clinked her glass against Blake’s, the others following suit.

Vila, hands occupied with playing chips, had to snatch up his glass from the table, and met them just as Avon, too, leant forward. He caught a glimpse of Vila’s grin out of the corner of his eye as their glasses clinked together.

When Avon leant back, it was to meet a small smile of Blake’s across the flight deck, the fairy lights reflecting off his glass lifted in a small, private greeting. Avon found that, just this one time, he could return it without hesitation.  


End file.
